She can remember
by Misunderstood Beauty
Summary: Sequel to 'Anguish. Breakdown. Confusion' Somehow I get the feeling I'll end up going through the entire alphabet. RuthHarry post 5.05


Disclaimer: Not mine – not that I have any money anyway so don't even bother sueing me.

A follow up to 'Anguish. Breakdown. Confusion.' It's now Ruth's point of view.

-

Too many walls have been built in between us  
Too many dreams have been shattered around us  
If I seem to give up they'll still never win  
Deep in my heart I know the strength is within

- Too many walls – Cathy Dennis

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D is for depression.

-

She knows that the answers don't hide in the bottom of a bottle. She knows that if she does this any longer she's going to self destruct. She knows that this could ruin any chance that they'll ever get back together again. She knows full well what she's doing. She's helpless to stop it though. She vows that she'll stop after one more, and then that one becomes two, and that two becomes three. It's a never-ending utterly vicious circle of 'one mores'.

It isn't good. It isn't healthy. It's just an escape. She can't have him so she has this.

She's sent him a letter; she's put some lyrics to a song on there. A soppy, sad song from about 13 years ago. She thought that he should know that she hasn't forgotten him, and that she never will.

She wonders if he's got it yet. She wonders if he still thinks about her. She wonders if he truly misses her. She wonders if he took anything from her house other than Fidget. She wonders if he can still remember her face clearly. She wonders if he can remember the first thing he said to her. She wonders if he remembers the kiss, the kiss she had lived for, the kiss that had finished one life and started a new.

She can remember everything about him. She could draw a picture of his face: the intelligent broad forehead, the furrowed deep brow, the thoughtful dark brooding eyes, the pronounced and slightly squishy nose, the full, silky softness of his lips, the small cleft in his chin. She can remember how he paced about, how his figure always asserted authority in times when there was none visible.

She can remember the soft pitch and tone of his voice the best, the voice that she had lived for while she had worked there. The voice that had greeted her softly every morning and saying goodnight just as softly every evening. The voice that had offered support to her, the voice that had nearly whispered 'I love you'.

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E is for exasperation.

-

She isn't naïve anymore; she's learnt life the hard way. She's lost the man she loves, possibly forever, probably forever. That hurts. It hurts a lot. She's no longer ignorant of life's curses and blessings; she's learnt not to take things for granted. She's learnt the hardest possible way.

She wants desperately to be back where she started, walking into the briefing room and feeling like a complete idiot when she dropped her files. She had smiled at his pathetic attempt at a joke before throwing herself right in. She wants desperately to go back to the day where he would breathe down her neck as he looked at the computer screen over her shoulder. She wants desperately to go back. She wouldn't have followed Maudsly, she wouldn't have been framed for murder, and she wouldn't have been forced to die.

She feels a lot older than she is. She feels as though half her heart is missing from her chest. She feels as though she is living a half life – she is no longer Miss Ruth Evershed, she is a new completely fictional character, and only she can know the truth about Miss Beatrice Wright.

She's Jane and he's her Mr Rochester. He is the older brooding master; she's the naïve young woman who learns to love beyond the power of poetry and prose. The book itself takes pride or place in her bookshelf; various passages that remind her of the long courtship have been underlined in the steely grey of pencil. The corners were well thumbed and the cover ripped and sellotaped back together with the burden of having been fingered too much. She craved the happy ending of 'Reader I married him' yet was denied it by a cruel twisting of fate.

-

F is for fixation.

-

She seldom gets any post now. It used to be that the mess of her hallway was always complimented with a small pile of letter beneath the front door. Now there is nothing. She has restored everything else to the way it used to be, everything but Fidget, her suitcases full of photos, memories. And the post.

Everything was scattered around the house just the way it had been before. Something's missing though. She doesn't know if it's the fact that the possessions are new, or if it's the lack of a cat crawling all over them, or if it's the lack of him.

She doesn't know quite why she sees a lack of him in her house; he was only in her old one two, possibly three times. She knew that she craved his musky smell and soothing manner, but she hadn't expected this.

She had sent the letter in the hope of receiving a reply, she feels sure that he's too much of a gentleman not to. He wants he handwriting to sprawl out over pieces of paper, his warm, understated scent to seep through onto a page. She couldn't have his voice, his looks, his feel or his taste, but she's determined to get one of his senses into her reach.

Every time she hears movement outside the quaint cottage she peeps through the blinds to see if it's the postman. Every time she's wrong. Every time but one.

She has drifted into a shallow sleep, a gentle doze. It's probably the most slumber she's had in weeks. A small crisp ecru envelope falls with a soft thud onto the doormat. She's up and out into the hall faster than she could say it. She stars in quiet delight mingling with disbelief at the neat handwriting on the envelope.

She hasn't hoped in vain.

_My Darling Ruth,_

_I have never been much use at love letter and I have no idea what to say, possibly because I'm speechless, I'll let Cathy Dennis speak for me as she does it so much better than me;_

_Wish on a rainbow is all I can do  
Dream of the good times that we never knew  
No late nights alone in your arms  
I'll dream on  
Living in wonder, thinking of you  
Still looking for ways to uncover the truth  
You're so young is all they can say  
They don't know._

_I heard this and I thought of you, I'm thinking of you every second of every minute of every hour of every day. You will be in my heart and mind forever._

_Harry xxx_

She smiled a little as she heard his voice speak this as his tender hand wrote it onto the sheet.

It is comfort to her to know that her fixation might just be returned.


End file.
